


What You're Doing To Me

by smothermeinrelish



Category: John Lennon - Fandom, McLennon - Fandom, Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Bambi Kino, Beatles in Hamburg, Blow Jobs, Bottom! John, Dirty Talk, Dom! Paul, Drunken Shenanigans, Friends to Lovers, Hamburg is Gross, Jealous McLennon, M/M, McLennon, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Orgies, Paul McSnaccy, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Pure Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Subby John, Teddy Boys Hamburg, Teddy McLennon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27074011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smothermeinrelish/pseuds/smothermeinrelish
Summary: John's not sure what is going on.  Since arriving in Hamburg, the sex and parties are non-stop, yet he can't shake this growing feeling there is something going on with him and Paul.Is it the sin of the city?  Or has John found a void within that is looking for it's missing piece?
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Original Character(s), John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 8
Kudos: 86





	What You're Doing To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the Hamburg Bottom John fic that I went through hell and back to complete. Due to personal struggles and life issues it took me quite a long time to get the motivation to complete this. Through it all, I'm very happy with how this turned out.
> 
> Thank you to @unchaineddaisychain for being the best beta and friend anyone could ask for!
> 
> I appreciate all the love and support in this fandom, you all are amazing people. Comments and Kudos are appreciated more than you realize :)
> 
> xoxoxoxox

Pete’s new girl was a working girl. He called her a stripper, which no one denied. The fact was, most nights she worked with her roommates at the Diamond Gulch in the St. Pauli district. On a night like most others, the lads had ended up at the club for the last show of the night to watch Pete’s girl shake what her mother gave her.

“She’s got fantastic tits!” Paul said with a ciggie in the corner of his mouth, burning into his vision.

“That she does, mate. That she does.” Pete agreed, taking a swig of his warm beer.

“You say those others are her girlfriends?” John eagerly held out a Deutschmark, thighs spread wide waiting for one of them to give him attention.

“Would you look at them? Legs for ages.” George gulped, eyes as wide as saucers.

The tease became a party for the four of them; the unconsciously drunk patrons ignored the loud English boys. With a knock-out blonde in a g-string rotating salacious hips in his lap, John was pepped on pills and ready for act two of the private show.

“C’mon, lads,” Pete barked at the rest of them, “Ursula has invited us back to their place!” 

Gathering their cigs and the last swallows of drink, Paul nudged his unsteady side. “You think they’ll give us one for free?” 

“Free!? I gave that lass a full week's wages for that lap dance. I expect something outta her!” John lumbered towards the exit, elbow entwined with his best mate’s. The night was still young in their eyes as the crowd of misfits stumbled down the Reeperbahn in the wee hours of the morning.

+

An Edith Piaf record spun on the turntable in the dingy flat. Sheer scarves were draped over lamp shades, hiding the grime of the space and its inhabitants. It was obvious that this flat hosted its fair share of paying visitors.

While Pete and George laughed in the bedroom with their dates for the evening, Paul and John sat side by side on the settee, chain smoking, knees knocking while the two girls, Ulrike and Inge, danced together slowly. Tantalizing the boys with soft pecks to each other's mouths and pinches of each other’s breasts. Pink peaks of tweaked nipples in thin nighties were glaring into John’s soul. If the girls weren’t going to make a move on him and Paul soon, he might take matters into his own hand. Literally.

“Hey, girls, we could use some company over here,” Paul chimed in, breaking their teasing game. Leave it to Paul to know when his hard-on was becoming painful.

Each girl straddled them. The space was already tight, while Paul sunk further into the sofa, fully pressed into John’s side. The heat from the room stirred densely, bodies moist from sweat off the stage, their leathers rubbed together. John raised an eyebrow at Paul, while the two girls in their laps continued to kiss each other, rather than the tough, English Teddy Boys.

John gripped the hips of the blonde in his lap, thrusting his pelvis enough for her to get a hint.  
“Bitte girls, we’re needing some attention.” Their lips parting as they giggled, looking down at the frustrated boys.

“Nein.” The blonde in John’s lap threaded her fingers through his matted hair, scraping her red fingernail teasingly over his bottom lip. Paul watched her ministration to John with pure lust in his eyes. The redhead stretched out on his thighs and spoke better English for them to understand.

“You kiss him?” She pursed her lips, mimicking a puckering before speaking more. “Vee suck zu off, jah?!” She nodded enthusiastically. To make her request known, she scooted off of Paul to the space on the floor between his legs.

The haze of perfume and alcohol made them stall for a moment to comprehend. Before he could give another thought to the request, John spoke up for them.

“Ja, Ja! Anything, just suck us off already, Christ.” Already attempting to shimmy out of his leather trousers, Inge helped him unbuckle the tight pants. Paul followed suit and began to remove his own unforgiving leathers. 

This was how things went nowadays with no privacy in their stinky hell hole of a room—side by side in the bunks when they would have female companionship, perfectly cozy.

Taking Paul’s half hard cock out of his burgundy y-fronts, Ulrike stopped her hand before she urged them on, “Kiss! Jah? Kiss!” 

Oh, fuck it. 

John grabbed Paul by the neck, pressing his dry lips to the pouty gob of his best friend. The touch was chaste and sloppy. When the wet tongue of his stripper slipped around his cock, John withdrew his mouth from the pathetic attempt of a kiss; Paul, too, seemed to be distracted by the lusty vixens. Ignoring the daft request to make out with each other, both of them relaxed into the ritual of getting deliriously good fellatio.

Side by side, the slurping pulls and skilled mouths of the girls had them melting into the tiny sofa. These girls were talented, some of the best they had ever pulled.

Fingers caressing his balls, deeply taking John into her throat with nary a gag, he was in heaven. It wasn’t long before he heard the familiar sigh of Paul’s pleasure filling his ears. Opening his eyes to catch a peek, he shifted his weight to turn into Paul more. While he watched his friend enjoy the sloppy blowjob, Paul’s reaction became more of a turn on than the lass on her knees in front of him.

Paul’s eyes fluttered open, as if he knew he was being studied. Giving John that mischievous grin of contentment. He slightly chuckled with amusement before resting his head into John’s shoulder. When he turned against his throat, the scruff of his stubble tingled down John’s body.

“‘S fucking good, Johhny…” Though he was thick in the moment, Paul’s breath was strangely enticing. Sinking lower, he spread his hips and John followed suit, slumping deeper into Paul. 

“God, she’s working your prick nicely.” Paul smirked into the stretched column of John’s glistening neck. His filthy comments were getting him closer than the bird was with her skillful mouth. 

He closed his eyes, a fleeting flash danced behind his eyelids of Paul on his knees, taking his cock between his lips.

“Oh yeah, hmmm, fuck Paul…,” he uttered, barely a whisper towards the ceiling, while he thrusted his pelvis.

Inge moved, licking softly, then pulled away from smothering his cock. She took two fingers and slid them into her mouth to cover them with thick spit from the back of her throat. Paul and John turned from each other to watch her intently, wondering what exactly she was doing.

Before he could utter a question, John was jolted into a zing of delight. Placing her wet mouth back onto his throbbing prick, she began to finger his arsehole. A guttural groan unconsciously ripped through his throat, the noise foreign to his own ears.

“Fuck!” was all he growled out. Hands frantic, breath panting as the sensation overwhelmed him, he clung to the closest thing for stability. Callused fingers digging into his forearm, Paul was wide-eyed and panting as he ignored his own pleasure to observe John unravelling before his very eyes.

“That’s it, baby, mmm….” Paul’s lips were in his ear, tongue wet as he teased over the shell. In a whisper, meant only for him to hear, he confessed, “Wanna see you cum, Johnny.”

The enticing voice, frantic sucks, and fingers teasing inside him had his heart racing. John’s inner thoughts were everywhere after hearing Paul’s sinful command. Rocketing through him from head to toe, he came hard. The intensity of it scattered down his spine like ice cubes. It felt as if he was orgasming for the first time in his life, spraying cum across her ivory breasts. 

Lost in the haze of his climax, he slightly recognized the sound next to him of Paul reaching his own peak. Mumbles of incoherent lust-filled babble, he could feel Paul’s teeth sink into his shoulder. Clammy sweat covered their bodies as he slumped further into his friend. Dazed and lost without any self control, he nuzzled at Paul’s sweat-slicked brow.

“That was brilliant,” Paul spoke into his damp t-shirt, lips vibrating the words into his bicep. Blissfully wrecked in his afterglow.

“Yeah, it was,” he replied, slightly confused and keenly aware of the pleasure he was feeling after getting his arse fingered with Paul watching. They had been in some kinky situations, but nothing remotely like this before.

Eventually he regulated his breath. The rest of the night faded into a blur of naked bodies, shots of cheap liquor, and rambunctious laughter. By the time the sun was rising, they stumbled back to their quarters wide awake and exhausted from the night of forbidden debauchery. Their shoulders knocked into each other as if nothing in their world had changed, when really, it had planted a seed that would grow at tremendous speed.

+

He tried not to dwell on it. No way that was something straight blokes enjoyed having done to them. The sheer memory of the stimulation was enough to make him cringe. Blaming it on being out of his mind on prellies and beer, he should have stopped the girl from doing it. John should have told Paul to “knock it off”—that his blathering mouth was affecting his concentration.

Goddammit, his best friend was going to think he was a queer. First chance he got, he’d be telling Pete and George, “Lennon likes it up the arse.” The nausea of guilt lingered every passing day that they didn’t talk about it. Funny thing was, Paul never mentioned it. It obviously hadn’t affected him; in fact, the randy bugger was more busy than usual with birds, it seemed.

Deviating from his normal routine, John hadn’t slept the entire day away. So after taking a half-arsed attempt at a shower, he sat in the shithole of his room, penning a letter to Cyn. In a rare occurrence, he was alone and lied on the top bunk chain smoking, with his bare feet pressed to the crumbling ceiling. Sketching a naughty cartoon onto the letter, he was interrupted by the clumsy footsteps of people outside the door.

Paul and some tarted-up lass with too much eye makeup stumbled into their living quarters. Laughing and groping, they instantly began to undress and snog like they were on a time frame. Knowing Paul, he probably had thirty minutes to get his money’s worth.

John thought he should have made his presence known, let the couple know they weren’t alone. After all, he was here first, and this was how it went. You fucked in the dingy room, whether you had privacy or not.

When he heard Paul start with his damn dirty talk, he decided to keep his mouth shut and just silently observe the tryst from above.

“C’mon, let me take care of that for ya…,” he cooed, as the raven-black hairs on his head ducked under the short skirt of the lass. 

Paul was always giving the birds theirs first. Licking them in just the right ways so they were pliant puddles underneath him. John could never be fucked with all that. Paul explained to them when they were young fellas still called the Quarrymen that he’d learned about it from his mum’s medical encyclopedia book: 

“There’s this little button thing on all girls, if you touch it just right, it makes ‘em get off!”

“You’re daft, why don’t lads have that then?”

“We do! It’s our pricks, ye numpty bastard.”

“Aye, well you give it a go first and tell us how it is.”

“Oh, I will lads, and you’ll all be jealous when the birds won’t leave me alone.”

From that day forward, McCartney was hooked on snatch-licking.

Sitting in the bunk, he had an excellent view of the action, which included the moves Paul used to get the girl to squirm and writhe in pleasure. By the time he had used his skillful tongue for her completion, he flipped her over and stripped down. He settled his dick into her in one swift motion.

John had seen Paul have sex before, but he had never watched Paul have sex. From the short distance, he felt like a peeping tom, face flushing pink with curiosity. He shifted on the bed, trying to adjust the growing throbber in his drainies, thinking the sound of the squeaking would not be heard. But Paul immediately looked up and over at John on the opposite side.

Rather than faltering his rhythm, he kept on thrusting and staring at John all the while. The hot shame tickled on the back of his neck, and as John started to look away and roll over, Paul’s voice was steady and strong over the moaning girl beneath him.

“Touch yourself.” He nodded up to him on the bunk, eyes boring into his own as he coerced him into jerking off. “Go on, baby.” 

John wasn’t one to be told what to do, but the look on his face was serious, and before he could register it all, he was unzipping his jeans. His hand was eager to comply with what Paul was asking of him.

He bit his lip, nodding in approval as he watched John obey his command. As he focused on John’s strokes, his speed alternated with the lass, quickening and slowing. With each pull of his cock, the wetness dripped over his fingers, making the slickness delicious.

Watching the pleasure on Paul’s face, he was unsure of this strange need to witness what was next. A need to make Paul come, just like he had done only a few nights before. It was a challenge now, this game of looks and dominance from across the room. He was nearing his own release but needed more. He needed to see Paul come undone. 

Stopping the motion of his hand, he drew the damp fingers out of the confines of his drainies and licked salty precome from their tips. Paul’s brow furrowed in anticipation of his impending orgasm, complete with a trembling moan of approval. John then slid his fingers around his pulsing cock again, fully on display now and throbbing for Paul to see.

Pulling out abruptly from the useless bird between them, Paul tugged on his own prick while panting and focusing on John, just out of reach. A loud groan of satisfaction echoed in the small space as Paul shot his seed all over the pale backside of the girl beneath him. John lolled his head back and exhaled quietly as his own pleasure rolled through him and down his back.

Always the gentleman, Paul helped the lass clean up and get dressed before he escorted her out. John continued to lie still in the upper bunk, breath still labored from another bizarre twist of sexual fate. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t aware that he had been party to their afternoon fuck.

The weight of it all was blissfully surreal yet crushing. Sooner or later whatever was going on with him and Paul was going to explode in their faces. No longer was this a ‘wanking game’ or casual interruption, this was turning into lust-filled desire.

More days passed with nothing spoken about it, not even a hint of anything different between them. They were playing better on stage, more in tune to what the other was thinking. This had always been the case, but it seemed stronger in recent weeks. 

No one else had suspected anything, at least as far as John could tell. Paul was naturally a flirty bastard, so who could really see if John’s heart beat a little faster when he touched him in that daft way where he’d run his fingers up his arm like a spider. Friends did stupid things like that together, didn’t mean that John’s increasing thoughts about kissing him again should be taken seriously. 

Nor should the wanking off he had been doing in the privacy of the grotty loos so he could finger himself while imagining Paul thrusting his thick prick into him. 

No. All these thoughts and actions were best not to dwell on. 

It occurred to him, as he once again watched the shame splatter on the toilet wall, that perhaps it wasn’t so much the act and sensation, but more about the relinquishing of control.  
Since they had begun playing together it was both of them as equals. John was the leader, but it was their band, fifty-fifty. Even the songs they had begun to write together were always ‘Lennon/McCartney’ originals, regardless if one of them had contributed more than the other.

Paul was consistently a partner to back him up and reel him in when he went too far. Since arriving in Hamburg, it had been an absolute blur of sex, drugs and hard rock ‘n’ roll. A few times John had gotten himself blattered and who was there to pick up the broken pieces? When times got frantic, and things became too real and ugly, Paul was his confidante, his everything. 

The longer he thought about it, he wanted to let those walls come down in the heat of the moment. Give Paul complete control of everything, including his body. The idea had begun to consume him to the point he thought of little else when he was his presence. His confidence waned, vulnerability dripped from him, and the burning curiosity in his gut made it impossible to go back to the way things were before.

+

The Exis had invited them to a party, away from their usual territory and into the posh suburbs of Hamburg. Stuart insisted they dress up in costumes like Astrid and Klaus’s friends were going to. With his new internal struggle, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to attend a function that could put Paul and him in another compromising situation. Therefore, John outright refused.

“I’m not dressing up like their poofter friends!” he said, finality in his tone.

“C’mon, Johnny, everyone will be there,” Paul replied while he finished shaving his face. Clean and ready for another night of sexual deviances.

“And, it’ll be fun, partying with their queer friends. Might learn a thing or two.” 

John looked up from the porcelain sink, hair dripping from a quick rinse under the rusty faucet. 

“The fuck’s tha’ supposed to mean?” he garbled out around his toothbrush, somewhat expecting this to be the moment when Paul finally broke the unspoken tension.

He continued to lather his face in foam, eyes glaring into John’s through the cracked lavatory mirror. 

“Nothing, just planning on broadening me outlook on things. That’s all.” Paul smiled softly as he grazed the razor across his face. 

Something in his pupils gave him pause, like he was insinuating that it was something John wanted as well. He tried to blame the newfound infatuation on the fact that he had pretty much done everything possible with a woman, he was bored. Seeing how open and free people were here in Hamburg made him realize, maybe it was ok to be curious? 

If he got it out of the way with a bloke, he could move on and realize that this was nothing more than his over-sexed imagination. 

“Yeah, you go ahead and ‘broaden your outlook’. I’ll be on the lookout for a broad,” John wittly replied, spitting into the sink.

Paul’s laugh reassured him that it was all going to be fine, that this night in Hamburg was going to be just like the others. No more weirdness between them, they were going to party, drink some beers, then all would be right in the world.

+

The night had grown increasingly rowdy. Walls thrummed with bodies in costumes and masks, with pills of speed handed out to any willing consumer. John had lost track of Paul for some time, and now was the moment in the evening to find himself a bit of company to close the night with a nice knee-trembler.

Throughout the evening, John kept making eye contact with a fellow whose face seemed to linger on him for several minutes at a time. At one point they were in the kitchen drinking bottles of beer a meter apart, but neither acknowledged the other. This wasn’t uncommon; what struck John was that this bloke, honest to God, could have been Marlon Brando. Complete with leather jacket and cap reminiscent of the one he wore in the Wild Ones. Great costume, great features, and intimidating to John when he saw all the girls flock around him.

Leave it to his luck to now be in competition with this guy for pulling a fit gal for the night. He looked like a weakling prat next to the hunk of man surveying the room. Perhaps he’d get some fresh air and wait for the room to clear and take home whatever was left. Resigning to the idea that he really wasn’t in the mood to try more flattering bullshit to get a quick piece of snatch, he walked out to the backyard garden.

Viewing the ink-colored sky, he could see the glittering of stars in the infinite universe above his head. It had been ages since he saw a clear sky. Taking deep breaths of air, he let the ringing in his ears drown out the hum radiating from inside.

“Hallo.”

John stumbled on his heels, slightly shaken from the interruption.

It was him, the rough motorcycle bloke. John staggered slightly, reached for a smoke and lit it. Offering one to the stranger in his presence, he tried not to think of those times in his room at Mendips when he’d lie in bed, jerking off to the image of Brando in his head. As if this guy could possibly know about the sick fantasies he’d had when he was sixteen. Not like John was getting those sick fantasies in his head at this very moment.

It all happened too fast. His cigarette was falling from his hand as he was being pushed against a garden shed wall behind the trellis of vines. For a second he fought, thinking he was getting jumped, before unconsciously letting the strong arms lead him out of sight.

Towering over him by a shoulder length, the hunk curled into him. All hard and bulging angles blocking out distraction, he softly hummed at the contact before the strong jaw of the man was pressing into his mouth. To struggle would have been hopeless. It was obvious the two of them had been sizing each other up the whole night. What John had felt as a bit of jealousy, was actually the different side of arousal he was slowly becoming attuned to.

His brain scrambled with logic as he opened his mouth wider, allowing the stranger to enter. The touches, rough and dominating, lit a fire in his gut. Pulling the man closer, callused fingers full of pecs and biceps was enticing the erection in his trousers at an alarming speed. He’d never kissed a guy before. Never worth kissing one that didn’t look like this, but now he was all in with this muscled dominator.

“You want?” his gruff breath whispered over John’s lips.

He nodded, scared of what he just agreed to but feeling like he’d shatter if he didn’t try this. He exhaled before craning his neck up to fall back into the tangle of tongues that felt too good to stop.

The way the guy held him—gripped him, pliant in his hands, John melted into a feeling of which he’d never known the likes before. This stranger was tender but rough with his grinding hips, overwhelming John with stimulation that this was actually going to happen. For the first time, he was going to feel completely opposite of how he was expected to feel. John Lennon, rebel extraordinaire.

A tangle of hands pushed them further into dark coverage of the shed before the Brando type spun John around. Face pressed against the cold cement board siding, he exhaled sharply out of his nose.

His eyes closed, listening to the gentle clinking of belt buckles opening. Giant hands lifted his hips and he surrendered his bare arse in the moonlight to this beefy stranger. With one palm holding his hip bone, the other skillfully tugged on his leaking cock. A strangled groan in his throat had the lad pulling away, only to return with warm slick fingers slipping into his willing arse. 

“Jesus, mmm fuck,” John exhaled in pain as the burning stretch cluttered his mind. The sting lasted seconds while the thick fingers explored. He tried to relax, rest his head on the rhythmic shoulder muscles dancing as they administered pleasure down his spine, but it was impossible to focus.

Everything in his mind was clear; he was moments away from being fucked in the arse by a nameless stranger, yet he couldn’t find an ounce of regret within him. He wanted it. Needed to feel this different way to enjoy whatever sensation this was. If this is what made his sick curiosity go away, he had to let it happen.

The garden was silent, save for the shivers of sound between them. When the man eased into John, he felt as if he were simultaneously coming together and falling apart. His breath ceased while the burning strain consumed him. His body was opening up for this intruder— rough with his hands, squeezing the life out of John.

Staccato slaps of skin were in his ears, breaking him down into a feeling of submission he had never experienced. God, his heart was pounding as the man filled him deeply, stroking his cock while he plunged faster, rubbing inside of him a spot of pure pleasure. John’s orgasm spilled sloppily with a moan as the man held his shaking body tight. A muffled groan informed him that his penetrator had come, too. It was over.

Pulling out, the emptiness that lingered was more than that of having been stretched…it was like he had lost a piece of himself. Clouding his comprehension, the man had already pulled up his trousers and slapped John’s arse in appreciation. When John lifted his chest from the shed, his hookup was already smoking a cigarette and walking back to the house. He got his bearings, legs still wobbling from the aftershocks, as he pulled his trousers up.

Mindlessly running fingers through his hair, he was stone sober, completely aware of the act in which he had just participated. This was no mistake, no accident—he had let a stranger fuck him.

Lighting a smoke, he ambled his way back to the party, sore and stiff. He almost didn’t see him standing there. Almost got away with it, until he heard that sing-song voice speak to him,

“There you are, Johnny. Guess I should have known to check the garden?” Paul was implying, obviously having seen the motorcycle man leave the space John was vacating moments before him.

His usual response would have been to slug the bastard, show his friend that John Lennon wasn’t a queer, but it was a lie now. Whatever Paul thought he had seen was the truth. A truth he didn't owe an explanation for. Shit, even he didn’t know what this meant.

“He was just helping me broaden my outlook. Or is that only okay when you do it?” Lips snarled, he was quick on the defensive. 

John saw the hesitation in Paul’s face as he threw the conversation back to him.

“I don’t care what you do,” Paul spat out in frustration.

“Sure seems like you do. Were you spyin’ on me, Macca?” John asked, pulling on his nearly spent smoke.

Although it was pitch black in the garden, he saw the blush fill Paul’s cheeks. Embarrassment. He had been spying on John.

He turned around, moving to the door that led back into the quieted party. “Just be careful, okay?” he said seriously.

“Pfft, sure, Paul, you lecture me on how to live my life. I forgot, how many birds have you knocked up…?” John mocked him spitefully, the only emotion he was feeling in his inner turmoil.

“Fuck you, Lennon!” 

Before John could react to his outburst, Paul was lunging at him. Eyes crazed, pupils dilated, he was nearly foaming at the mouth with rage. John had never seen him like this, even when he and Stuart had a row.

Paul’s fists gathered the lapels of his jacket, hoisting him up. They were practically the same height, but now in his anger, Paul had the upper hand. He seethed, smoky breath panting into John’s vision. Here it was, the moment Paul McCartney was finally fed up with his shit.

He closed his eyes preemptively for the impact of a punch, but it never came. Cautiously, he opened his left eye to squint at his attacker. The desperate stare into his face was not what he was expecting. Paul’s glassy eyes looked hurt, like he was the one that had been walloped in a fight. 

He took a deep breath, holding back a sob. “You don’t get it,” he murmured. His strength had relinquished John while his shoulders slumped into himself. 

“I guess I don’t.” John pushed past him, his upper arm brushing against Paul’s leather jacket. He opened the door to the house with force and didn’t look back at Paul standing alone in the dark garden.

\+ 

Vulnerability was something you feared in Liverpool. Never let them see your soft underbelly, or you’d be flayed alive. It was more valuable to be tough, and John was a master at it, cocksure and in charge of it all. So after the night of the party, he upped his bastard ways. Making sure Paul understood that whatever he thought he had seen, was not true. Macho John was still that leader, and a bigger arsehole to Paul and the others than he ever had been before.

The others were fed up with the ‘Lennon’ antics. George outright stormed off the stage and spat on him after he drank a half bottle of whiskey, then proceeded to chuck into his guitar case. Paul calmed them down, giving his usual defense of John, but the coddling was making it worse.

Night after night, he would fuck up in some grandoise way to prove a point, and Paul was always there with a shoulder to lean on. It wasn’t helping the feelings he was going through. After letting the guy fuck him at the party, John’s infatuation only grew stronger. As he kept pushing Paul away with self-deprecating actions, the bastard remained.

+

It had been days since John had slept. Pills and beer had kept the bender going. They were mid-set when Paul decided to slow down their usual list of songs for something slower. As John leaned on the large amp at the corner of the stage, Paul crooned into the microphone. He was getting all soft and flirty to some birds fluttering close to the stage, so smug and charming as he broke into a spoken word poem during the instrumental solo. Sneaking behind Paul, John began to make lewd and obscene gestures towards the girls fawning in the front. As the crowd erupted in jeers and boisterous laughs, Paul turned suddenly to witness John’s sloppy gyrations at his expense.

Quickly, he stepped away from the microphone, laying his guitar down before grabbing John by the crook of his elbow. A clutter of strings and amp fuzz was the only evidence on the stage of the two band members seconds away from a scuffle. The other three continued to play on, not even blinking an eye that McCartney was once again straightening out their dickhead of a frontman.

“Ye think it’s funny? Ye thick cunt!” Paul pushed him into the storage closet behind the stage. The force of the cinderblock wall knocked the air out of his lungs, momentarily dazing his brain. Fury flaring in his nostrils, John’s ability to get away was useless with the intense strength his string bean friend held over him. 

He saw that look again, crazed and angry, but something else burned hotter within Paul’s eyes. Instead of fighting, he held still. Breaths rhythmic as his dilated pupils stared into his captor’s face, a smirk curling across his dry mouth. John was mocking him.

“Know what I think?” Paul’s hand moved from pressing into his shoulders, hand now wrapping around the thick, sweat sheened neck of John.

He squeezed. Tight enough to make John falter his thoughts of brazen immaturity. Now, the only thing coursing through his prellie-filled head was the throbbing of his dick, fully aware of the control Paul had over him during this very moment.

The grip on his throat tightened, his eyes fluttered at the incredible sensation. He licked his lips, “Wh-what do you think, Paulie?” There was an obvious tinge of seduction in his strained voice.

Paul saw the fight go out of him, now holding still and compliant under his touch. His mouth hovered an inch from John’s panting gob. A slight shift of his stance slid his thigh between John’s crotch. Their leather trousers conducted heat as Paul pressed into the vee of John’s hips, alerting him of his own evident arousal.

Another shift against the forbidden fabric had Paul letting out a moan of approval. Eyes closed, absorbing the humid confines, he didn’t finish his thought before the crashing bite of teeth clattered into him.

John groaned, grateful for the heavy contact—all hot breaths and tongues wrestling for dominance. His hands roamed over Paul’s sweat-soaked t-shirt, black and wet. Fingers tugging at his jaw, opening his lips wider for more. Paul threaded fingers through his damp, auburn locks. Pulling John’s bottom lip with his front teeth, he made it hurt, a sting that lingered after he pulled away. John instantly tasted the metallic tang of blood while Paul’s hand still maintained its clench around his neck.

“Now, Johnny, tell me you’ll be a good boy.” Paul’s eyes studied him with intent. John’s cock was aching with need, already leaking in his y-fronts.

“Yes.” The gravel of a whisper escaped him. Yes, he promised Paul, he’d do anything to have him keep him like this, overpowered and submissive. God, he was sick. 

Leaning in, Paul kissed him again. Hand relaxing against the column of his throat, he gave a tender lick to the droplet of blood. The kiss had changed pace, languid and sensual. Paul’s arms enveloped him in a secure embrace. 

“You’re going to suck my cock now, Johnny,” Paul spoke into his ear, before pulling back and guiding John down the cinderblock wall that scraped his back.

On his knees, he didn’t even hesitate. Hands sprawled the backside of Paul’s lean thighs as he nosed the groin of Paul's trousers. Flat palms rested above him, he looked up to see the powerful man watching him. With quick hands, sure of this more than the guitar chords he played every night, John unzipped Paul’s trousers. The sight was better than he imagined. Paul’s cock was cut and had an impressive girth that his mouth craved. 

An encouraging whimper had him hungrily taking the pretty prick deep into his mouth. John felt his own cock twitch with each deep pull that clipped the back of his throat. So focused on the exquisite gift between his lips, he squeezed Paul’s arse harder, blinding himself with the thickness suffocating him.

“Touch yourself while you suck me,” Paul demanded, voice unwavering. 

John wasted no time freeing his dripping dick with frantic hands, while his mouth still sucked greedily. The image of the two of them set his brain on fire. He gripped his dirty nails into Paul’s pale bum cheek, making him hum contentedly.

Hips stuttered and with rapid breaths Paul emptied into John’s hungry mouth. Wrist rapidly jerking while the hard cock still rested between his lips. White, hot light burst behind his eyes as the sticky cum dripped between his fingers. He was drunk with euphoria and the salty semen of his best mate.

Sinking to his knees, Paul’s shivering legs collapsed exhaustedly into John’s space below him. They both panted as their heart rates regulated. Arms instinctively wrapped around to coddle him while John slinked his head onto Paul’s shoulder. He whispered praise and appreciation into the rough scratch of his sideboard. A frenzy of ideas rushed through his mind, but the quiet of the storage room stilled him. He was good for Paul, and wanted to always be good for him.

+

John behaved, reset and recharged from the fog that was cluttering his head. His bandmates could see a difference, not sure exactly what transpired between the two when it all came to a head, but they were grateful.

The days after the secret storage closet tryst passed easily. Paul and John didn’t talk about it, and they ended up writing two new songs as a result. John couldn’t define it, but he seemed to think the curiosities that had sprouted were satisfied.

That was, until a night out with new frauleins made that sensation creep up again before he could shut it down.

It was smokey and humid and loud. Three couples in the cramped quarters, all sucking, fucking and panting like an orgy at Caligula’s palace. The scene was complete with empty wine bottles rolling across the cracked linoleum and among the chaos of discarded clothes and cigarette butts. It was filthy the way the blonde bounced on John’s prick while he squeezed her bouncing, firm tits. Really a great piece of snatch with just enough makeup on to make him almost believe it was Bardot herself riding him.

Paul was just opposite of him, with a black-haired beauty face down and moaning into the dirty pile of sheets on the shoddy mattress. John watched as he swatted a flat palm against her pert bum, making her squeak in appreciation. Dammit, he was fully interested in his blonde until the angle changed, and now all he could see was Paul fucking the bird hard, in time to his own thrusts. 

He tried not to lose focus of his rhythm, continued roaming his hands to places that kept the lass riding him good. She came loudly as John’s digits rubbed just right, clenching around him and practically milking his orgasm out. But he faltered as Paul changed positions. Somehow he was closer to John’s ear than he had been all night, only to begin speaking to him so lowly he wondered if he was imagining it.

“She’s not as tight as you. Bet you would let me fuck you harder than any of these birds. Just watching your face has me ready to cum, Johnny....”

It was absolute filth and John couldn’t comprehend the intense shivers down his spine as his mind pictured Paul fucking him unconscious into the bed he currently occupied. His eyes closed, focusing on his own pleasure because if he looked at Paul on the other bed, he’d do something crazy and couldn’t let that happen.

The series of moans escalated in the stuffy room when John quietly spilled into the knockout blonde, feeling ill and claustrophobic. He was aware of everyone around him, all in stages of their post-sex haze. The blonde fell on top of him, curling into his chest to place sweet kisses to his neck. It was the last thing he wanted as he watched out of the corner of his eye Paul coddle his black-haired bird like she was a fragile and delicate flower. 

The twist of jealousy tightened in his guts. “I want that,” he thought to himself. Laughter and a gathering of garments ensued shortly after the rousing orgy ended, and all John could feel was the emptiness that started to make itself constant in these situations.

+

After that night, John realized he had to remove himself from it. The more he and Paul ended up in sexually compromising situations, the more it ate at him.

He went to visit Stuart, now mostly living with Astrid at her place. He brought a sack of dirty clothes with the hopes of getting them washed, and perhaps a warm bath for himself. The cold, gray afternoon turned into a therapy session in a sense. He and Stu talked about memories of art school, music, and other things that distract him from his thoughts of Paul. It was a rare day off from performing, and he couldn’t be bothered to go back to the hellhole of the Bambi Kino just yet. 

They had drank tea and enjoyed fried eggs, but when the time of the evening came to switch to the harder stuff, Stuart got up to leave.

“Meeting Astrid at the cinema, then dinner with her mum.” He put on his jacket, getting ready to vacate the comfort of the warm kitchen.

John stood to join him, grabbing his sack of laundry. “Do ye think she’d mind if I did some wash? Got cleaned up, like?” 

Stu leaned in and exaggerated a sniff. “Could do, Lennon, you’re rancid,” and playfully punching his arm, he left through the back garden.

The solitude of the house, with rain tapping on the window, was the music his soul needed as he settled into the near scalding water of the bath. It felt like ages since he’d had a proper wash. The water swirled with the grime of his body like he’d shed a layer of his skin, a weight somehow lifted off his shoulders and down the drain.

He put on his clean clothes and made more tea before settling down and putting on a record. With his feet extended on the makeshift table, he slurped a loud sip from his cup when the staccato tap of knuckles alerted him of a visitor.

It was fully dark outside now, and John expected it to be Klaus or Jürgen, always coming and going from the beatnik hub of Astrid’s flat. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was the soggy body of Paul staring at him from the outside looking in.

“Bloody hell, you’re soaked through to the skin!” John ushered his damp friend inside and by the warmth of the kettle on the stovetop. Paul huddled in with a bewildered look on his face. The chill of the November night was palpable, and John knew that Paul had been out in it for a while. Would probably catch his death if he didn’t get dried off.

“Yeah, got caught in the rain.” Paul muttered with a far-off look on his face. Without hesitation, John removed the wet leather coat, heavily saturated.

“C’mon, get into the bath,” he urged and easily guided him by the crook of his arm to the tub, where he filled it with hot water. 

Paul sat on the bog to take off his soaked socks and boots. John gathered up the discarded items and left the room before returning with more clean clothes for him to change into after the bath. He placed them on the floor right outside the door.

Time passed slowly while John sketched in his notebook and waited for Paul to join him. Although he wasn’t ready, he knew the moment was approaching when they were going to talk about it. His stomach was in a knot, even the sweet sugar in his cuppa unable to soothe the gnawing of anxiety that filled him.

When Paul shuffled into the room, he looked soft. Clean and pink from the bath and wrapped in a wool sweater almost too big for him. John tried to remain aloof while Paul went to the turntable and put on a new record. The crackle of a harmonica broke in from a blues record, sexy and sultry in the air. 

John could feel Paul’s eyes on him when he took a seat next to him. He settled his arm across the back of the settee, torso turned into John. The flush across his cheeks had to be apparent as Paul took the warm mug of tea from his hand and proceeded to tilt the ceramic lip to his mouth. John stared, tongue flicking out to moisten his parched lips. In complete awe over the last few weeks, he didn’t even know who he was anymore. The man beside him had complete control over his every thought and action to the point where he wasn’t sure if it was best for him to keep on with the charade of friendship.

The sugary sweet smirk of Paul quieted his thoughts. With tender hands, he set the cup down, fingers taking both the pencil and notebook from John’s hands. John was aware of the knuckles grazing the nape of his neck when he let a soft sigh escape. As Paul spoke, the busy finger slipped lower, tracing across John’s shoulders.

“When I saw you with that bloke in the garden…I was mad with jealousy, John.” He swallowed hard, looking for the right words to express how he was feeling. With swiftness his hand cupped John’s jaw, making him turn to look directly into his inquisitive eyes. 

John shoved down the nerves in his throat to keep his words even. “I know you were, y’know I like to get a rise out of you.” 

Paul smiled, mouth leaning closer and hovering enough to warm his face with palpable breaths. A slight reassurance that they were going to be okay resonated through his body.

“When are we gonna stop tiptoein’ around what’s been goin’ on?” Paul confidently asked while biting his bottom lip.

“Was waitin’ for you to give me the go ahead…” In a rush of words, John spoke as he rubbed his cheek like a cat into Paul’s open palm.

Leaning closer, the gates flew open to the moment before them. The soft plush of Paul’s mouth brushed across his quivering lip. 

“Well then, go ahead.”

The colliding kiss had John melting into the couch. His entire body exposed to the pleasure of giving himself to Paul. Arms wrapping to encompass the man who was providing him everything that he wanted and needed in life. Although he’d imagined this moment a hundred times, it felt even better than his wildest imagination fathomed. 

The clumsy touches slowed as Paul settled between his thighs, stroking softly over his hard cock. “God John, I’ve been dreamin’ ‘bout this, going mad with want for ya’.” Paul mumbled into his neck after a little bite below his ear.

John’s hips lifted to feel the equal thickness pressing into him, “There you go with that filthy mouth again.” as his fingers tangled into the clean locks of Paul’s hair. 

Pulling away with a wicked grin, Paul held his stare as he moved down John’s splayed out body. Perfectly teasing as he unbuttoned John’s trousers, exposing the hard on that had been affecting him since Paul walked into the room.

“I’ll show you a filthy mouth.”  
Then he winked, the cheeky bastard. In that perfectly charming way that had lasses dropping their knickers for him. John was exactly like them, aching for a piece of the smooth guitar player in leather. God, he had never wanted something so much. The velvet tongue licked soft, unhurried strokes to the pace of John’s clipped off breaths. Just like the way he feasted on birds, Paul meticulously savored each masculine feature of John’s cock. 

John was on fire. The sturdy fingers pressed into the pale flesh of his thighs already feeling bruised as Paul worked sloppily. Their bodies were still tangled as Paul lifted John’s left leg over his shoulder, taking full control of the pleasure he was giving. With the new angle, Paul sunk lower. Flat tongue grazing wet over John’s swollen balls, his eyes rolled back in ecstasy from the rough grazing of Paul’s chin. 

“Fuck...Paul.” his coherency was teetering on the edge.

Paul snickered, taking the throbbing dick into his dominant hand to tug the skin, dripping from the tip. John watched, a wreck of sweat and babbling words lost in his voicebox, held tight for the next act when the words would be needed.

The sinful mouth made its way lower, until the lifting of his pelvis got him to adjust to the new way he was on display. When Paul pulled away to get comfortable on his chest, John’s heartbeat in double time as he saw the mischievous grin confirm what exactly he was going to do. With a tentative lick, John’s lungs inhaled a breath of pure contentment. Like a missing piece, the gentle tongue licked its way into John’s tight passage like he’d been starving for this.

Never before had John thought he’d have been on the receiving end of Paul’s legendary cunnulingus talent. Paul moaned and lapped skillfully as he whispered and shook at the impending eruption building. His whole body felt wet. Desire leaking out of him from every touch Paul placed with his mouth, he needed it now, needed to be fucked before he broke apart.

“Please, please Paul, need you to fuck me.” John’s words like gravel in his throat. He clung to Paul’s head buried deep between his legs. Slowly, after a few more flicks of his skilled tongue, he pulled away. Biting rough to the meat of John’s thigh, face flushed and mouth red. He looked wrecked and drunk on power.

Smiling and in control, he licked his fingers, and slid them inside of John. Administering slow, stretching strokes, John closed his eyes. His orgasm was creeping in, he could taste it as he clenched his teeth. The thrust of fingers loosening him for Paul made his stomach flutter in anticipation. 

“Look at you, Johnny, so wet and begging for me.” John’s blurry vision focused on the image of Paul fingering him while he unbuttoned his drainpipe denim with one hand. “Guess I’m going to have to give you what you want? Are you going to beg me for it?” All touches stopped, as Paul spit into his cupped palm.

A shudder racked through his body at the word ‘beg’. Fuck yes, he would beg. 

“Yes, please….Paul.” John stared while Paul continued to saturate his prick.

“Please what, Johnny?” calm and collected he spoke with a firm cock in his hand.

“Please! God Paul, just fuck me!” John begged, his erratic arms reached out to touch Paul, but were halted when the slim body covered him. Grabbing tightly to John’s limp wrists, he held them above his head and stared into John’s eyes as he thrusted in sharpley. 

They moaned in an erotic harmony, open mouth breaths in shared air while their foreheads pressed together. To John, the pain was better than the pleasure that had waned, feeling stretched from Paul’s prick was like being marked. Owned by this man, in every sense of neediness that washed over him. He lifted his hips, wanting more, begging to feel it deeper.

Fully in control, the press of his hips into John made Paul lose all sense of being in charge. A change was taking place as John opened up for him. He let go of the restraining grip of John’s wrists and let the feel of the connection take over. John took his freedom to cradle Paul’s face, letting his mouth taste the intimacy between them. Paul kissed him back, hands roaming softly over the warm skin of his ribcage, desire dripping between his taunt shoulder blades.

“You feel like home.” Paul muttered, breathlessly. Nose deeply inhaling John’s neck in the crook, the tang of clean sweat lingering in his olfactories. 

With the confession, John wrapped his legs tighter to meet each slowed thrust. He didn’t want this to end, the moment they were in. It was like home. When all of Hamburg weighed on their backs, only the companionship of Paul grounded him, keeping him whole.

“You are my home.” He whispered back, clinging tight.

Paul lifted his head, glassy eyes boring into him with the confession. Their lips met in a partnership that danced in and out of want and pure lust. The sheer need of the other in their life was frighteningly real in this vulnerable moment.

It happened in a body wracking spasm that shook through him and into Paul. His hips slowed yet went deeper until John saw his face and felt the warmth inside of him. They were completely consumed with the passion neither ever found the words to say.

Minutes later, in the haze of entwined limbs and lazy kisses to skin, Paul’s hand found John’s and held tight for longer than either thought about. 

+

Walking through the wet streets of Hamburg to the hovel of squalor, they made it back to the Bambi Kino. Pete and George were getting pissed off a cheap bottle of whiskey and offered the drink to the both of them when they walked in the door with cold cheeks and damp hair.

“Fancy a game of cards?” George asked, setting aside his guitar to make room for the two of them.

They sat down on the bunks, across from each other. Eyes smiling and knowing, but oblivious to the others. Pete shuffled the cards while John took a hearty swig from the bottle.

“Did I tell you about the new gal I’m pullin’?” Pete bragged as he dealt the cards.

“Nah, ya’ didn’t Pete, what’s this one like? Proper prozzie or what?” John eagerly asked.

“She’s a burlesque performer! Hey, she’s got girlfriends, you lads want to meet them?” 

“-Er, no thanks Pete.” Paul cut him off, eyes looking to John as he fixed his hand of cards.

When John smirked, the blush of his cheeks had to be evident to the room. Except no one paid any mind to him and that was quite okay by him.


End file.
